CHAPTER XXIX.
THE CRONES—THE CORPSE, AND THE SHARPER.
Haggard, exhausted, and in no very pleasant temper, Henry Ashwoode rode up the avenue of Morley Court.
“I shall have a blessed conference with my father,” thought he, “when he learns the fate of the thousand pounds I was to have brought him—a pleasant interview, by ——. How shall I open it? He’ll be no better than a Bedlamite. By ——, a pretty hot kettle of fish this—but through it I must flounder as best I may—curse it, what am I afraid of?”
Thus muttering, he leaped from the saddle, leaving the well-trained steed to make his way to the stable, and entered at the half open door. In the hall he encountered a servant, but was too much occupied by his own busy reflections to observe the earnest, awe-struck countenance of the old domesti
